


30:  Threshold

by light_source



Series: High Heat [30]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:11:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/light_source
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- I’m at the gate, says Tim’s voice, - the combination’s not working?<br/>- Yeah, says Zito, letting out a breath. - I changed it, sorry, forgot to tell you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	30:  Threshold

As the house darkens slowly around them, the violet outside merging with the flat shadowy grey of the interior, they’re on the threshold, neither here nor there.

Haren smells new and strange to Zito - sweat, the inside of somebody’s house, Ivory soap. There’s a random note of woodsmoke, too, as though he’s been outside near an open fire. His warm hair is so thick and soft and long it seems like an animal’s fur, almost a live thing.

As Zito unfurls his fingers in it, stroking, pulling, smoothing it back from his temples, Danny pulls away and breaks off the kiss, twisting his head to push his hair deeper into Zito’s grasp.

They’re both breathing like sprinters, high and harsh.

Danny’s lips are chapped - the dry winter air, Zito thinks.  He stares at that mouth, bruised and warm now, and wet. That mouth that was his go-to dream for longer than he wants to remember.

But it’s Haren’s eyes that seize his attention. They’re blue and faintly reddened and inquiring, as if Danny’s reconsidering. They seem to be giving Zito one more chance to run.

Zito looks straight back at him, blown sideways by confusion and desire, and then his eyes fade closed and his mouth says _yes_ as though it’s got a mind of its own.

With a groan that seems to issue from the depths of his body, Haren presses Zito into the open doorjamb, his hands nailing him between the door and the wall, fucking his mouth slowly and voluptuously with his tongue. Haren’s always been that much bigger and stronger, and now Zito is dimly aware that he’s wedged in the gap between the edge of the door and the jamb, one of the metal hinge-plates carving hard into his shoulder blade. But he’s grateful, Zito is, because without the doorframe, he’d be on the floor, his legs are so warm and weak with desire.

Zito feels longing lick through him like a backdraft, his mouth surrendering, sucking Haren’s tongue as deep as he can take it.

Those hands of Haren’s are already so part of himself that Zito is only half-aware when Danny pushes the hem of his t-shirt loose and slides one hand up the hard muscles of Zito’s belly, his thumb stroking, Zito thrusting mindlessly, desperately, into the touch.

Haren’s other hand slides down the back of his jeans, and then he hauls up so hard on Zito’s ass that he nearly lifts him off the floor.

His fingernails are rough, not yet trimmed for pitching, and they send a flash right up Zito’s spine.

Then Zito feels an on-and-off buzz in the front of his jeans, right next to his hard-on. As he shakes off the dream, feeling dim and crazy, he wonders what the fuck is that, a vibrator, something Danny’s picked up in his new straight-guy life with Jessica?

It’s his cellphone. He fumbles it open.

//

\- I’m at the gate, says Tim’s voice, - the combination’s not working?

\- Yeah, says Zito, letting out a breath. - I changed it, sorry, forgot to tell you.

He’s turned his back on Haren to take the call, and walked a few steps away from the threshold, outside into the evening and the fading scent of sage and creosote.

His right hand, the hand that’s not holding the phone, finds its way to his forehead, and it’s strangely hot. As Zito stands there, he becomes aware of the sweat droplets sliding down his back from his nape to the small of his back, and he realizes his hair is wet at the collar.

\- Three-one-five-eight-seven, he says in the voice he recognizes as the one he uses for pizza delivery boys and the guy who does the pool.

\- Yep, says Tim’s voice. - That’s it. Kay.

In the background, the metal gate clonks and whirrs, and then the call clicks off.

//

Haren’s stepped back inside the entryway, hands loose, face blank with shock. With one hand he smooths his hair back, and then he uses both hands to stuff the rounded tails of his button-down back into his jeans. When he realizes he’s still half-hard, though, he yanks the shirttails back out.

Out at the edge of the driveway, Zito flips his phone shut and walks slowly back to the doorway where Haren’s standing. His hands on his hips, he fixes his eyes on Haren for a long moment. Neither of them speaks.

It’s cold now, with all the doors and windows still open. And dark. In the striated glow from the punched-tin porch light, they can just make out each other’s faces.

Zito stoops to pick up the shirt and hanger from the tile floor. He straightens slowly and extends it to Haren, end-to-end, a runner handing off a baton.

They stand there silent, the air cooling between them, until Zito’s heart is in his ears, counting. Haren’s eyes are away, unfocused, till he looks back up at Zito. He’s chewing the corner of his lip.

\- I know, he says quietly.

And he’s gone.

//

As the sound of Haren’s engine dwindles, Zito strolls back out, bare feet cold on the slate stones, one hand feeling where his face has been chafed by Haren’s five-o'clock shadow. He stands at the edge of the driveway, arms crossed, waiting.

At the rim of the hill the headlights of Tim’s car tip up like old-fashioned searchlights and then splay out into the cobblestoned turnaround. He’s driving an actual car, not the F-150, a low-slung sedan, its engine quiet enough to be expensive. The headlights snap off.

Suddenly Zito feels lighter, hearing the crickets tuning themselves and the birds settling down for the night, and the sound of the driver’s-side door whooshing shut.

//

\- I did my standard second-star-to-the-right-and-straight-on-till-morning, says Tim, cocking his head to the side. - Had to give in and stop around Tehachapi, but that was pretty much it.

He presses the light button on his wristwatch.

\- Thirteen hours and seven minutes. Woulda been faster, but my planning was for shit.  I think I ran into rush hour in LA.

\- Not your fault, says Zito. - It's never _not_ rush hour in LA.

They walk towards the house, their feet illuminated by the pathway lights, Zito leading, his arms still crossed. Tim’s extended his arms behind his back, his fingers interlaced, and he purrs a little with the pleasure of the stretch.

\- All the doors open as usual, Tim continues as they enter the house. - What’s with the lights off?

\- I think better in the dark, says Zito.

In the hallway Zito turns and steps in front of Tim, slipping one hand around Tim’s neck and the other around his waist. Tim’s back is still a little sweaty and his shirt bunched and wrinkled from the drive. His skin smells like long hours behind a sun-hot window and the fake, harsh wind of the freeway.

Tim’s body is wiry and spare beneath Zito's hands, and he folds himself gently into the curve of Barry’s arms, his breath slow and steady.  Zito can feel Tim’s eyelashes brushing against the corner of his jaw.

\- Aren’t you gonna kiss me? Tim asks, leaning his head back a little and tipping his chin up. 

Zito just looks at him, paralyzed.

\- OK, says Tim, pulling away abruptly.  

He turns towards the big bank of west-facing windows.

\- Why don't you tell me, then, why I just passed Haren at the gate?

 


End file.
